The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1)

by Loreth Anne White

  “Ginny—”

  “I don’t care what you say. You think everyone is bad. You never laughed at home. You never just enjoyed a weekend with me and Mom. Never went hiking or camping or just had the neighbors around for a backyard barbecue. Those were the things Mom wanted from you. That I needed from you. You barely even smiled at me when you did actually come home—”

  His cell buzzed in his pocket. She fell silent, stared at him. It buzzed again. He ignored it. The waitress was coming over with their plates of food. The call kicked to voicemail. And almost immediately his cell started to buzz again.

  He removed it from his pocket, checked the caller ID. His new boss. He frowned. He wasn’t due to start until Monday morning.

  “I need to take this,” he said softly.

  Ginny glowered at him.

  “Maddocks,” he said quietly into his phone.

  “It’s Jack Buziak,” came the voice. “Sorry to disturb your Sunday, but homicide has just caught a case, and it has the potential to blow politically, considering the new mayor-elect’s posturing. I’d like you as lead on this one from the get-go.”

  He glanced at his daughter. She was watching him intently. “What have you got?” Maddocks said.

  “Floater. In the Gorge under the Johnson Street Bridge. Looks like a female. They’re pulling her out now—coroner, pathologist, and indent crew is on scene with Detective Harvey Leo. We’ve got uniforms securing the area—” A pause as Buziak spoke to someone else, then came back on line. “Looks like our DB has been in seawater for some time. There’s speculation that she could be the missing UVic student, Annelise Janssen. Can you get down there? Can I let Leo know to expect you? I’ve told him you’re the primary on this.”

  The food arrived. “Ranch benny?” the waitress said, holding the heavy white plates. Maddocks turned his back to her slightly, lowering his voice further. “Where exactly?”

  “Johnson Street Wharf, right under the bridge off Wharf Street.”

  “Be there in ten.”

  “You’re not going to leave, are you?” Ginny said as he killed the call.

  “Ginn. I … I’m sorry. We can do this again some other time.”

  The waitress was still standing there. “Ranch benny,” she said, louder.

  “Why don’t you stay, finish your breakfast—”

  “Forget it.” Ginny turned to the waitress. “Take it away. We don’t want it.”

  “Would … you like me to bag it for you?” the server said.

  “No,” Ginny snapped, pushing her chair back, bumping the woman seated behind her. She grabbed her coat. “This—see? This is why Mom couldn’t stand it. Whenever she tried to make family time, someone went and got themselves murdered. It’s your fault that Peter is in her life—your fault she’s taken a boyfriend. You care more about dead people than your own family!”

  The patrons around them fell quiet.

  She punched her arms into her jacket, yanked her sling bag over her shoulder, and made for the door. She shoved through it. Maddocks quickly dumped a wad of cash on the table, grabbed his coat, and hurried outside after her.

  “Ginny!” he called. “I’ll give you a ride—”

  “I don’t want a ride. I’m going to see a friend.”

  He watched his daughter stride up the sidewalk slick with dead leaves. The wind tore at her coat. She rounded the corner where a lamp standard was still plastered with an old election poster. He inhaled deeply, stuffed his hands into his own coat pockets, and made for his vehicle.

  Maddocks unlocked the car and opened the driver’s side door. The stench of dog pee was instant.

  “Oh, Jack-O, what in the hell?”

  The old Jack Russell sleeping on the backseat lifted his head and stared benignly at him, the scar from where his back leg had been amputated still pink from a more-recent second operation. The dog had gone and peed on the newspaper lying on the floor of the front passenger side. Maddocks swore, climbed into his vehicle, and wound down the windows in spite of the sleet and cold. He didn’t have time to find a place to dispose of the wet newspaper right now. He put his car into reverse. “You couldn’t have waited another second or two, Jack-O boy?”

  The dog gave a little sigh, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep on his blanket.

  And Maddocks drove to a murder.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Metro PD sex crimes unit operated out of a large cubicle that had been partitioned into four smaller work areas through the arrangement of metal desks. Adjustable shelving units around the periphery of their cubicle housed their case binders and files. Angie was one of the sixteen detectives in sex crimes, and they were divided into teams of four. The detectives, along with a training officer, a ViCLAS coordinator, an analyst, and two project assistants, worked under Sergeant Matt Vedder, whose glass-walled office was one of several in a corridor that ran down the sides of the various bullpens.

  The place was empty when Angie entered her work area. Dundurn and Smith—the other two in her and Holgersen’s team of four—had punched out from their night shift. She hung up her coat, palmed off her wet hat, tossed it onto her desk, and made straight for the shelf with the Fernyhough and Ritter case files. She located the file box, hefted it onto her desk, and opened it.

  “Pallorino!”

  She glanced up. Sarge Vedder, her superior, was standing in his office doorway, a newspaper in his hand.

  “Where’s Holgersen?” he said.

  “Washroom or having a smoke—don’t know.”

  “Get in here,” he said with a jerk of his head. “Come catch me up.”

  She abandoned the files and followed Vedder into his glass-walled office. He closed the door behind them, slapped a copy of the City Sun onto his desk.

  “You just caught this case last night. It’s not even nine thirty a.m., and you’re all over the front page. I already have Fitz on my back, and Singh is on his, going all the way up the chain of command to Chief Gunnar. You talked to the Sun?”

  Angie’s gaze dropped to the paper on Vedder’s desk. Across the top of page one a big, black, blocky headline blared:

  Violent Sexual Assault in Ross Bay Cemetery—Young Woman Left in Coma

  Beneath the headline was a photo of the two paramedics wheeling their Jane Doe into the back of an ambulance. Beside it was another image—her and Holgersen exiting Saint Jude’s, she in her black wool cap, hair pulled back, face tight and complexion ghost-white in the light of the harsh flash. Her mascara-smudged eyes and overly red lips gave her an aura of a haunted addict. Holgersen fared no better—looking just as much a narc user with his hollow cheeks, sharp bones, mad eyes. She snatched up the tabloid and skimmed through the story.

  Metro sex crimes detectives have identified the victim and are notifying next of kin. No word yet on whether the woman could be Annelise Janssen—a UVic student and daughter of prominent Victoria industrialist Steve Janssen. The student mysteriously vanished from campus a fortnight ago … adding to the growing crime statistics that new mayor-elect Jack Killion has vowed to stem …

  “You’re kidding me?” She looked up from the paper. “She’s dragging Killion into this?”

  “The rest of the city media will have picked the story up and be running wild with it within the hour. Who told this reporter it was a sexual assault anyway?”

  “She appears to be in possession of a scanner. She went to the cemetery and saw for herself. Perhaps she spoke to one of the EMTs, someone at the hospital—I don’t know.”

  Vedder heaved out a sigh and dragged his hand over hair that had started to thin over the last six months. “Okay, so what have you got, what do you need? Who is the victim?”

  “We don’t have an ID on her yet.”

  “So what’s this reporter saying, then? Did you tell her that she’d been identified?”

  “I didn’t deny it.” Angie tossed the paper back onto his desk.

  He swore. “Way to notify next of kin, Pallorino. This is somebody’s kid. Som
ebody’s sibling—”

  “Like I don’t know that,” she snapped.

  “And let me tell you something else.” He jabbed his fingers on the photo of her and Holgersen. “You can bet your ass that Gunnar isn’t too happy about seeing your face on the front pages again—I sure as hell am not. You’re becoming like the poster child for things gone wrong with Metro PD, my unit in particular.”

  Anger stabbed fast through her. She clenched her jaw. “Don’t. Don’t you dare, Vedder. What happened with Hash—that was not my fault. I was cleared in—”

  “Okay, okay.” He raised both palms in surrender. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He cursed again and smoothed his palm over his hair once more before turning to face his window. He stood in silence for a moment, his back to her, watching the sleet against the panes. Tension shimmered between them. Angie’s heart thumped. Her neck was wire taut.

  “All due respect, sir,” she said quietly, straining for calm, “I didn’t run this story. That woman shanghaied us outside the hospital. I frankly don’t see that it’s such a big deal, anyway. Half the stuff in that piece of tabloid trash is either fabricated, slanted, or unsubstantiated, and people know it.”

  He nodded slowly, turned. His eyes met hers. “Apologies, Angie,” he said, softening his voice. “We all miss Hash. Tensions … are just running high right now. Everyone’s expecting Gunnar’s head to roll, and who knows who’s going with him—could be me next.” He paused. “You doing okay? Holgersen working out?”

  “It’s early yet.”

  “He’s good. Make it work.”

  She inhaled. “Yeah.”

  “So what’ve you all got? Catch me up.”

  “The cemetery assault could be linked to the old Fernyhough and Ritter cases.” She quickly gave him a rundown, hitting at the similarities, but before she could finish, a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” Vedder called.

  The door opened. It was one of the uniforms. “We got Jane Doe’s mother,” the cop said, excitement hot in his eyes. “She’s at Saint Jude’s right now. Lorna Drummond. She saw the newspaper headlines this morning and rushed right over, hysterical because her kid hadn’t come home from her Saturday night shift at the bakery.”

  Way to inform next of kin, Merry Winston …

  “What bakery?” Angie said, voice clipped.

  “Blue Badger. Other side of Johnson Street Bridge. Staff say the kid never showed up for work and never answered her cell when they called to check on her.”

  Angie pushed quickly past the uniform and exited Vedder’s office. “Holgersen!” she yelled out over the cubicle partitions as she grabbed her coat from the hook near her desk. “Where in the hell’s Holgersen?” she called out loudly as she punched her arms into her sleeves and grabbed her sling bag.

  “He was outside having a smoke,” came a male voice from the other side of a cubicle.

  Dammit. She checked her watch, turned to the uniform. “If you see him, tell him to meet me at Saint Jude’s.”

  She left the building without her partner. As she got into her vehicle her phone rang. She answered it on the hands-free as she put her car into gear.

  “Pallorino,” she barked, reversing.

  “Angie?”

  Her father. Shit. She’d forgotten—they were going to move the rest of her mom’s things today. She was supposed to have been there an hour ago.

  “Dad, I … I can’t make it today, I really can’t. Just landed a big case—”

  “Right, right,” he said. “I didn’t think you would come. Running. Always running from something, Angie.”

  He hung up.

  Her eyes burned as she pulled into the street.

  CHAPTER 9

  Maddocks drew up to the police barriers and wound down his window.

  Metro PD cruisers lined the length of Wharf Street, bar lights flashing. Sleet was coming down hard as cops in bright-yellow visi jackets diverted traffic away from the waterfront and up into town. A crowd of onlookers was gathering along the barricades.

  He showed the patrol officer his new Metro PD badge, which he’d picked up when he’d signed the official HR paperwork last week. Jack-O barked. The officer peered inside at the dog.

  “New K-9 reporting for duty, sir?”

  “Mascot. ’Scuse the pee smell.”

  The officer gave an unsure smile, stepped back, and moved the barrier aside. “Down that way, sir.” He pointed. “That small lot just before the Johnson Street turnoff—it’s been cordoned off for crime scene personnel. The wharf access is down the embankment behind those brick buildings.”

  At the parking lot barricade, Maddocks flashed his badge again, and another officer entered his name into a crime scene log. He parked behind a forensics van and glanced at Jack-O.

  “You be good now. I’ll come and let you out in a bit, okay? Tomorrow you’ll have a sitter.”

  No response.

  Leaving the windows open slightly for the animal, Maddocks dug into his glove box for a ball cap—he’d forgotten his umbrella in the stand at the Blue Badger. He tugged on the cap, exited his vehicle. Wind tore instantly at his coat. Sleet slashed cold against his cheeks. He walked past a dark sedan with a CORONER ON DUTY sign displayed on the dash alongside an open box of half-eaten Tim Bits—fried doughnut holes. Breakfast of champions. They reminded him he hadn’t eaten. So much for the ranch benny and a date with his kid.

  He made his way around the brick buildings. They were abandoned—boarded-up windows, moss smothering the walls, graffiti, big FOR LEASE signs. Detritus of the homeless littered the recessed doorways—broken glass, an empty vodka bottle, beer cans, cigarette stumps, cardboard, a piece of unidentifiable clothing.

  He paused a moment in front of the buildings, absorbing the scene in the choppy Gorge waters below. Two Metro fire-rescue vessels—bright yellow with rigid black hulls—bobbed on the far side of an L-shaped dock that jutted out into the water. Officers in all-weather gear and ball caps hung over the gunwales, fishing for something with grappling hooks. Another officer appeared to be working a line that fed into the water—he had a dive partner down there, Maddocks guessed. On the shore side of the dock, logs jostled in a boom floating upon calmer water.

  The big blue Johnson Street Bridge loomed over the whole scene like an iron leviathan rising into the mist. Traffic hummed and clunked over it.

  A tall, slender male and a squat woman—both in black jackets marked Coroner—stood on the dock, also wearing ball caps against the sleet, which was now turning to heavy, gelatinous rain. Beside them hunkered a sturdy man, his hands in his coat pockets, a shock of white hair atop a square head. Detective Harvey Leo, Maddocks figured.

  The grass growing on the bank that sloped steeply to the water was slick underfoot as Maddocks started to make his way down to the water’s edge. A foghorn sounded. A large vessel piled high with scrap metal churned under the bridge, sending a succession of swells surging toward the dock. The dock swayed as the swells hit, and the logs in the boom rolled and bumped against one another. Water slapped along the shore.

  “Jesus fuck!” the white-haired man bellowed, gesticulating at the scrap vessel. “Can someone get a patrol boat out into the Gorge and stop that goddamn marine traffic! We almost had her—now she’s been pushed under again.” He turned and stared at Maddocks as he approached along the dock.

  As Maddocks reached them, the man said, “So, you’re the new guy from the horsemen?”

  “Horsemen?” Maddocks feigned ignorance at the dig as he continued to survey the scene.

  “Mounties—Mounted Police, that little blue horse logo on the sides of your cruisers?”

  “Right. I’m Sergeant James Maddocks.” He extended his hand. “You must be Harvey Leo?”

  The older cop assessed him for a moment with clear blue eyes. Slowly, he reached out and accepted Maddocks’s hand.

  “The one and only,” he said. His skin was cold, rough. Iron grip and a craggy face to match.

&nbs
p; “This here is Charlie Alphonse—city coroner.” Leo gestured toward the tall skinny guy. “And pathologist, Barb O’Hagan. We figured we’d get O’Hagan down here personally for this one.”

  Alphonse was a lanky man with a small head, beaked nose. O’Hagan looked to be in her late sixties, built like a little barrel, short with coarse salt-and-pepper hair sticking out of her ball cap. Bright brown eyes. Maddocks exchanged greetings with them.

  “What’ve we got?” he said, turning to watch the rescue vessels as they started to come around the dock and into the calmer waters on the shore side where the log boom surged on the new swells made by the scrap vessel.

  “Our floater came up far side of the pier, then just as they’d almost snagged her with those hooks, a tug went by, sending a bunch of waves that shoved her back below the surface. Had to call in a diver. Now that scrap boat has washed her under the dock and through to the calm side. We think she’s somewhere beneath that boom of logs now. Tide’s pushing in hard, too.” Maddocks could see it from the ripples and chop in the channel.

  “You certain it’s a female?”

  “Negative. Our DB was floating facedown, but the hair was long. Brunette. Just assuming she’s female,” Leo said, watching the dive tender feeding his line into the gunmetal-gray water near the rolling logs. “Dangerous shit that, diving under a boom. Worse than diving under ice. Need a tandem team with one guy working the surface, or the diver could come up inside the confines of a boom—those agitating logs would crush him.”

  “Probably several feet of silt and other detritus at the bottom, too,” Alphonse said as his phone rang. “’Scuse me.” He walked back along the dock and stopped under the protective cover of the bridge to take his call. After a brief conversation, he called out, “Barb! Got a vehicle pileup on the Malahat because of the snow at that elevation. Multiple fatalities—I need to get out there, stat. Can you handle this from here?”

  “Go. We’re good,” she called back.

  Maddocks got down onto his hands and knees and peered under the dock. Pylons were encrusted with slimy muck, mussels, and oysters. Sharp edges.